Just sleeping
by daisybelle
Summary: While investigating a case for Mycroft Sherlock accidently finds out that John is a sleeper assassin. Established relationship. Written for a prompt.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN:** Many thanks to BritChick101 for her beta-work._

* * *

"What am I missing?"

Tapping his long digits against the photograph on the mirror, Sherlock starts listing everything again.

"Coming to the office. Weapon. Three shots. Shoot yourself. But why, Major Bailey, why? And why did you swallow this note?"

He resumes his pacing, staring at the photograph in his hands – a picture of the note which was found in Major Bailey's stomach, the thin paper almost digested, only two words visible. Well, one word repeated. '_WALLE, WALLE_'

"What does it mean?"

Distractedly he registers John's footsteps on the stairs. Tired – not unexpected after last night and a rather long day at the clinic. A quick glance confirms the signs of fatigue in the doctor's face, their kiss just lingers a moment too long to be called perfunctory. Already returning his attention to the note in his hand, he sees the flash of uneasiness in John's face, but files it for later consideration.

'_WALLE, WALLE_'

Of course, he has looked it up on the Internet, but the only thing he found was the mention of a movie. The summary of the plot doesn't seem to apply to their setting, but why repeat the name? Is it a name? Is it important at all? But why would he swallow it?

Damn, why had Mycroft waited for him to see the original crime scene, his brother could have described it to him, maybe there would have been more left of this note.

Vaguely he catalogues John reheating some take-away and settling on the sofa. His voice sounds weary when he offers: "Do you want to take me through?"

Sherlock looks at his partner, recognizes the determination behind the tiredness and begins his explanation, starting with Mycroft's call, describes the crime scene at the MoD, the findings of the post mortems. He starts pacing again. John listens silently, when Sherlock ends his ramblings with all his thoughts on the note.

"Maybe it's a code?" – "Of course it is a code, but with only word there is not so much I can do. Have you any idea how many five letter words the English langu … OH, _OH_, this is brilliant. John, you're brilliant."

Sherlock almost runs to his bookshelf, tugging a thin volume out of the bottom shelve. "Of course, I should have seen it… German mother ... Famous ballad … Ah, there it is."

And with a dramatic voice he starts to recite:

"Walle! walle  
manche Strecke,  
dass, zum Zwecke,  
Wasser fließe  
und mit reichem, vollem Schwalle  
zu dem Bade sich ergieße."

In the back of his mind he registers John's movement, hears the desk drawer being opened. But it takes the metallic click of the clip entering John's Browning for him to turn around.

Suddenly it's very easy for him to imagine John as a soldier. The military stance, the emotionless face, the hold on his gun. And of course his calm voice asking:

"Your orders, Sir?"

* * *

When the door is opened, the light of the hallway allows a short glimpse of a dark room dominated by a rather large conference table. Andrew Cavenaugh steps in, closing the door behind himself and therefore restoring the darkness. The only light comes from a desk lamp which is conveniently pointed in his direction. He won't see anything beyond it.

"It has been a long time."

A melodic voice breaks the silence, startles him a little bit. He hasn't heard that voice in ages. Although not long enough. And the note that ordered him here had done nothing to prepare him for it. He is almost glad that he can't see beyond the light, his memory is good enough to remember all the details. The blonde hair always slicked back, blue piercing eyes barely hidden behind the glasses, the immaculate clothing.

He doesn't answer, but an answer is obviously not expected since this terribly beautiful voice continues.

"I've found a way to get him."

For a moment he is tempted to ask for confirmation, but there is only one man they hate both enough to meet again after all this time. Back then he had helped to start it, choosing the right people. He doesn't know how many of them are still active, or alive for that matter. Not all of them had fulfilled the potential they had in them.

"But I need your talents."

He isn't surprised. Of course, he would be involved. If anything goes wrong, there will be demands for heads, or more specifically, his head.

"How?" he asks.

"Through John Watson."

Another name he hasn't heard in a long time, not since that dreadful mission in Afghanistan. He was one of the most promising and it was not an easy decision they had made.

"But you said yourself that John Watson was a liability, that's why we had him shot."

Unfortunately the Doctor had survived the assault on his life, if only barely, but judging from the papers and his blog, he made a full recovery.

"If only your sniper was as good as the dear Doctor himself, then he wouldn't still be alive."

He hears the accusation, has always heard it. No, the sniper wasn't as good as Captain Watson, but it had been hard to find somebody who could shoot the man in Afghanistan. No questions asked in a war zone. But a lot of questions arise when you try to enter a war zone without a good reason. He can hear the satisfaction in the other voice when it continues.

"Well, my solution should solve this little problem as well."

* * *

With a gentle thud the front door of 221 B Baker Street closes behind him; his driver opens the door of the black limousine immediately.

"Vauxhall Cross, but take your time."

In the semi-darkness of the limousine he settles in the comfortable seats, allowing himself to slouch a little bit before replaying the events of the last hour.

_John Watson a sleeper assassin._

There has been nothing in his service records suggesting it and there have been no signs of tampering.

But Sherlock's dramatic staging was evidence enough. Speaking the trigger words, getting John pointing his gun at Mycroft (for a short moment that worried him), before speaking the words that ended this. They should probably be thankful that Sherlock didn't delete Nanny Roma's lessons in German literature.

But the situation raised of course a lot of questions. There were only so many people with the means and the knowledge to brainwash someone without leaving any obvious paper trail. Naturally, he has heard of MI6 trial runs with snipers, but until now he has never seen any confirmation. And what has been done with John Watson was quite elaborate and far beyond a simple trial run.

Which concerns him – for various reasons. Surprisingly Mycroft finds that the first one on this list is actually John. Not only for his brother's sake, but for the man himself. It was almost painful to watch him seeing the video, the shock, the apology – John Watson was indeed a good man. He wonders if the shock of the confrontation will change that, will have any effect on the Doctor. It is not very common to be presented with your dark side.

Of course, the other problems are much more worrisome. If someone like John Watson can be turned into a killer who else is out there waiting for the right words to kill? It leaves a whole new level of threat and apparently not even a thorough background check will reveal a potential assassin.

This is a matter he can't solve alone, he will need help. And he needs more data, more first-hand experience. He needs to see Vivian. They usually avoid each other, both perfectly aware of the other's capabilities and talents. It is always a game of power with Vivian, but she was the one in charge of the trial run. He hates the feeling of being in her debt, but certainly an unknown number of sleeper assassins should be enough to also worry her and at least give some information, especially on the methods they employed.

When the car stops at Vauxhall Cross, he isn't surprised to see the light on. He knows she keeps insane hours at the office. He is a bit surprised that she leaves with him, but even more by her offer to help. It seems a bit out of character for her, but maybe she was indeed furious that someone has managed to deceive them both. He puts this information in his mental folder for her before he texts his brother the details of John's appointment with her.

* * *

_They are running over green fields, barely visible in their camouflage. John grins at Aidan when they both arrive at the shooting area. Aidan is a tick faster than him, but John's aim is better – as always. Sergeant Doherty looks slightly impressed, as well as the two suits._

…

_A dark room, only one light, directed against his eyes. He can't see anything; only hear a melodic voice, speaking in a foreign language. He feels tired, wants to close his eyes, but somehow the voice keeps him awake, lures him, hypnotizes him._

…

_The door opens to a standard hotel room, everything seems beige. Only the picture on the wall provides a blur of colour. The man sits at the desk, an unmoving target. He shoots twice. He can see the holes in the back of the head as well as the grey-red matter on the curtains …_

John jerks awake with a sob, his breathing is ragged. He senses the movement beside him and it takes him a moment to recognise the room and the body next to him. The doctor feels Sherlock's eyes on him, but he can't turn around. With an abrupt movement he stands up, leaves the room without looking back.

In the kitchen he fills a glass with water, but before he can take a sip, the pictures of his nightmare come back and with it the memory. Aidan had been real, Aidan and their shooting competition and Sergeant Doherty. He leans on the counter, closing his eyes.

And the rest?

"What do you remember?"

Sherlock's voice startles him, he hasn't heard the detective approaching. But he shouldn't be surprised; Sherlock has a tendency to follow him. And now even more, he is one of Sherlock's cases. Normally he has no problem with the detective's full attention on him, but right now he feels trapped. As if Sherlock is waiting for something to happen. As if he will turn up trying to kill himself after another murder.

He doesn't want to think about it. Instead he tries to calm his breathing, breathes in, counts to ten, breathes out. A technique learned from Ella, his therapist. A warm hand is on his back, then Sherlock's arms are hugging him, his chin leaning on John's right shoulder. The detective matches his breathing to John's pattern.

They stand in the kitchen for a long while. Slowly the shorter man becomes aware of the cold floor, the humming of the fridge, the creaks of the old building.

"Will you tell me? What you remember?"

Sherlock hates repeating himself, but even in an almost soundless whisper he sounds demanding. But John doesn't want to answer. Answering makes his dreams real, turns the images into actual memories. In the reassuring squeeze of long warm arms and the closeness of his love's body, he finds the strength.

"I remember this nightmare."

* * *

Vivian takes in all the details of the man in front of her. It amazes her that this seemingly ordinary man has caught the attention of Mycroft Holmes' younger brother. She has met the Detective twice, everything is quite dramatic around him, nothing ordinary. Nothing like Doctor Watson.

Except that the good Doctor isn't so ordinary anymore (if he ever was).

Doctor. War hero. Sleeper assassin.

"Doctor Watson …" she starts, but he interrupts her.

"John."

His voice is firm, not a nervous wreck then, and although she can see some stress-related signs, he is pretty good at hiding them. But it is her job to spot the weaknesses in others.

"John, I'm not sure how much Mycroft has explained, so I will start with the basics." She waits a moment for a reaction, but he simply looks at her. She can't detect any annoyance or hesitation, so she continues.

"It is generally agreed that the best method for programming sleeper assassins is via hypnosis. The test subject is put in trance and then asked to perform some routine tasks. Since usually soldiers are chosen, shooting exercises are a routine task for them. When the test subject is used to the hypnosis the trigger is implanted. At first as a quick way to get the test subject in trance, but soon a routine is established which connects trigger, trance and shooting." She pauses. "Any questions so far?"

John Watson simply shakes his head, so she continues:

"I will try to hypnotise you and try to break the cycle between your trigger and your trained reaction. There may be some problems in the beginning, maybe you were also trained to resist hypnosis, but if all goes well, you should respond easily."

She waits another moment to see if this evokes a reaction. But the doctor stays calm, his face still amenable, but otherwise expressionless.

Deliberately she lowers her voice, adding some huskiness to draw his complete attention to her. She starts her routine, using the simple command "Follow my voice." She absolutely dislikes all the fancy stuff some of her colleagues use; in her experience soldiers like to follow commands.

Doctor Watson is not an exception. Although she chooses a very slow progress it is clear that he can be easily put in trance. When he has reached the final stage, she allows herself a little smile. She hasn't expected this to be so easy.

* * *

They are standing outside one of the ICU cubicles of St. Mary's, but Mycroft's attention isn't solely on the patient on the other side of the glass wall. He watches his brother out of the corner of his eyes, the strained lines of his mouth, the slight squinting of his eyes, the small frown of his brows. To the outsider they probably both look untouched, but even Mycroft has no difficulty imagining the body of John Watson in this hospital bed. The similarity is there, although they both know that John Watson is working at the surgery at the moment, having chosen the work to avoid the constant worry.

"Are you sure?"

A trace of hoarseness in Sherlock's voice, but the question itself shows Sherlock's vulnerability more than anything else.

"We reconstructed the message on his mailbox. It was the same trigger as for Major Bailey. And since Captain Smith doesn't have a German mother he obviously needed a spoken message."

"The voice?"

"Computer voice. The call came from a phone box near Trafalgar Square. CCTV on this part of the street was disabled due to maintenance."

Someone is very good at hiding their traces, only leaves enough to confirm something they already know. If not working for the MoD or somewhere related at least with very good ties to it. Access to information about the CCTV network and obviously long enough in the shadows to establish his own line of assassins.

"You'll have his complete records in one hour."

Mycroft sees his brother's nod, reassured that he isn't excluded from the investigation. As if there is any chance of excluding Sherlock from something to do with John Watson. Mycroft doesn't want to think what will happen to his brother if John Watson turns into the next Major Bailey, or worse, Captain Smith. His self-inflected injuries are so bad that chances are he will never wake up again, dependent on life-sustaining measures as long as someone is willing to wait.

The room is guarded by two redcaps who control everybody who enters the room. A nurse approaches them and is admitted. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock point out the obvious fake uniform and the forged ID. Instead they watch the nurse injecting something in Smith's IV bag. They let the nurse go, wait for the alarm of the heart monitor and for the declaration of death. A fast death is a mercy for Captain Smith, better than anything he would face if he had woken up. And certainly a better death than the nurse received, judging from the pained expression on her face when her body is found half an hour later.

* * *

The door opens and one of the nurses pops her head in.

"Dr. Watson, can you take one more patient before your break. Mrs Merriweather has already been waiting for almost two hours."

"Of course, Joane. Send her in."

He doesn't say that he is glad for the flood of patients that are coming into the surgery today. Glad for every minute he doesn't need to think about what happened …

With effort he suppresses the thought, thankfully helped by the arrival of Mrs Merriweather who is in the surgery to get her yearly flu jab. He talks to her about all and nothing, a habit long practised and quite useful while he prepares the syringe. When he settles in front of her helping her rolling up her sleeve, he is suddenly hit with a complete different image.

_A dark room. A man sleeping on the left side of the bed. He is lying on his back, his right hand under his head, the left resting on the sheet. Slowly he comes nearer, carefully rolling up the pyjama sleeves, exposing the arm and the veins. He takes the prepared syringe, Morphine, enough to kill and lowers the needle in the skin of the arm …_

With a jolt John jerks backward.

Oh god, oh god, what had he done, WHAT HAD HE DONE?

He hears ragged breathing and realises it's his own. He stares at Mrs Merriweather who watches him with wide eyes and a scared look.

He scrambles backwards out of the door, he needs air, he can't breathe.

His medical mind is quick to diagnose an anxiety attack, but despite this knowledge he can't prevent the dizziness. He stands panting outside the surgery, bent over, resting his hands on his knees. And his head constantly replays the moment when the needle breaks the skin.

He has killed. He has killed a man. And he has used his medical knowledge.

He is covered in cold sweat, the urge to vomit almost unbearable.

He has no idea how long he stands there – eternities with needles breaking skin – panting, until somebody comes. Sarah.

He can't understand what she is saying but he hears the concern. He manages "Flashback", feels her leaving.

His legs are weak, he can't stay up anymore. He drops to his knees, the images in his head merciless. He has broken the Hippocratic Oath. He has vowed to save lives.

He has killed before, cold-blooded, without any trigger. But he has never used his medical knowledge as weapon. Despite that he has.

Slowly, very, very slowly he calms down. His hands leave his knees only to hide the tears that are streaming down his face.

* * *

The door closes behind John Watson and two eyes follow his path from his therapy session to the street on the security cameras, study the military stance, the appearance of control as he leaves the building.

Yes, indeed, everything is going according to plan.

The tape of the session is replayed. The returning memories could turn worrisome, but at the moment they are still fragments, floating in his mind and helping to control him, driving him in the desired direction.

Oh, yes, that is the best thing about the job, messing with other people's brains. And if it is done without supervision, all the better. It was always fascinating, finding the point where to control another person.

Memories come – all those years ago, the first session with a young John Watson. He has aged well, the army and chasing criminals keeping him in good shape. But he has still the same weakness, the need for adventure, always the adrenaline junkie.

Admittedly it had taken a while to find it, but afterwards, appealing on his inner James Bond, painting his targets as bad as possible, it was easy. He had been one of the best men, even if he didn't remember it. The steady hands of a surgeon. If only … well, if only he hadn't been too intelligent, asking too many questions, even when he was under control.

It had been arranged for him to be deployed in the most dangerous areas the British Army had to offer, but he had always been lucky. Even the assassin had somehow missed (Watson himself would have never missed that shot).

But in the end things turned out quite nicely. Getting close to Mycroft Holmes always seemed impossible, is inner circle of trusted people impenetrable. Until John Watson accidently becomes the flatmate, the lover of his younger brother.

There won't be too much time, the Holmes brothers will figure it out eventually. But only one more thing has to be prepared before John Watson will be pushed over the edge.

John Watson leaves the building, hailing a cab to return home.

Soon, very soon, it will be over.

* * *

Sherlock wakes up alone in their bed. It's not unusual in their normal routine, but then John has simply left for work without waking him. It isn't unusual in the normality of their life now. John having nightmares, silent terrors that leave him trembling and force him out of their bed. He seldom returns after them, lacking now sleep, which doesn't help the situation.

The therapy leaves him further exhausted and the shadows under his eyes only get deeper every day.

The detective listens for a moment, tries to locate the doctor from their bed, but hears no sound of movement. He gets up, tapping barefooted in the kitchen. When he enters the living room, he senses more than he sees the movement. When he turns his head to the right, he sees something he has never thought he would see. Between the door and the sofa stands John, his Browning aiming at Sherlock, the safety catch released.

For a moment everything stands still. They are both frozen in their positions, staring at each other. Sherlock doesn't dare to move or to breathe. The man in front of him is not his partner, not the man he shares the bed with. This is the soldier, the assassin, the killer.

When his eyes adjust to the dim light coming from the street below, he takes in every new detail. The stance, the lifeless eyes, the hard tension around John's mouth. After the eternity of a few moments he sees John's hand shaking, securing the safety catch, seconds later the soldier crumble to a small heap of John, the gun dropping to the floor.

"Oh God, Sherlock."

John's pained sob is answered by the clenching of his heart. In an instant he is beside John, pulling the older man in an embrace, cradling him while whispering over and over again

"I've got you. I've got you."

Sherlock doesn't know how long they are sitting in the dark. At some point they relocate on the sofa, Sherlock carefully wrapping John in blankets. They don't speak and eventually John falls in an exhausted sleep, tremors still running through his body.

Carefully Sherlock reaches for his phone, making two calls. He speaks in a low voice, always keeping an eye on the sleeping doctor. Both conversations start with "I need a favour." Both end with the other side agreeing on being there as fast as they could. He settles the phone on the armrest and waits for the knocks of Mike Stamford and someone from his Homeless Network.

* * *

When he enters the room it is pitch black. But this time it has nothing to do with any psychological warfare, but with the time. It is 2 in the and the room is simply empty. Just because he could, he switches on the light.

The office loses some of his menacing timbre, when the impressive conference table, the desk and the portraits at the walls are illuminated, albeit not much. Somehow it feels as if the people in the pictures are judging him and not in a good way.

He makes his way over to the desk and lays the folder on it. There are already several on it and he gives in to the temptation to look into them. The content is a bit disappointing, but after framing one of the most powerful men – some even call him the British Government – for conspiracy everything seems boring, even the plans of a terrorist attack.

Although the most difficult part has been placing the evidence in the right places, places where they will be found by the right people. Some of them seemed a bit odd to him, but his instructions were clear. As they always have been. And as the threats have been.

In the illuminated room everything seems different, but he is too long in the business to trust the light. Light casts shadows and shadows turn into ugly secrets. Secrets that leave you in the hand of a meddling psychopath in employment of MI6.

A knock on the door startles him; it's the night guard on his round.

"Just leaving the folder", he explains, putting everything in neat order so the sternness of the room is restored.

He takes one look around, the light has lost its power, the portraits simply look menacing. And Andrew Cavenaugh wonders if the room wasn't less threatening when it was pitch dark. The light is switched off by the guard and the door is closed behind him.

* * *

A small sigh catches Sherlock's attention and he looks at the man sleeping at his side, his head resting on Sherlock's leg, his body in foetal curl under the duvet. Sherlock watches him for some moments, trying to determine if another nightmare disturbs John's sleep. He has hoped that the sleeping pills Mike Stamford brought them would do their job.

In the light from the bedside lamp and the street he can see John's face relaxing, almost innocent looking with the traces of his crying, so different to the dangerous man he was just hours ago. Sherlock allows himself to smooth some of the sleep dishevelled hair, before he returns to the folders in his lap.

There has to be a connecting factor, but until now the only thing John Watson, Thomas Bailey and Edward Smith have in common is a past in the army. They were never at the same camp, they were never in the same deployment, but John has declared some familiarity with both men, although he couldn't place it.

Sherlock grabs another stash of paper, rereading John's service record for the umpteenth time. Mycroft has proved his resourcefulness; his version not only includes the basics, but also personal notes of the instructors. It is always interesting to learn something new about his flatmate, friend, lover, but he would have preferred it if the circumstances were otherwise.

They were all excellent marksmen. Of course, it makes sense to employ excellent shooters for an assassination complot, but they certainly weren't the only good marksmen in the British Army. Sherlock can't help the sigh escaping his lips. Probability dictates John was turned into an assassin before his deployment overseas, so something must have happened during his army training. Something that isn't in the files. He has to talk to the instructors.

A quick research on his phone leaves him frustrated. One man is dead, one is overseas and the other one in Birmingham. He toys with the idea of sending Mycroft to Birmingham or letting him order the man to London, but he needs to see with his own eyes, asks his own questions and doing so in the natural habitat should allow him better results. And Birmingham is only two hours away. Plenty of time to get there and back to London to watch over John.

He chooses a train, before he closes his eyes and slowly slides down on the bed. He doesn't allow himself to sleep. Instead he catalogues everything, the warm spot on his chest, the steady pattern of breathing, the small movements beside him. And in the dawning morning light he admits that he is preparing himself for the possibility of failure.

* * *

Just to be safe he waits one hour after Sherlock has left. He grabs a small bag and packs some necessities, before he chooses a disguise from Sherlock's undercover wardrobe for him and puts it on. He prepares the bed to make it look as if he was sleeping. The hardest part is his farewell note. In the end he settles for two lines.

'I can't stay. I love you too much.'

He leaves it next to his mobile phone. Surely no further explanation is needed, not after last night. The wave of shame and fear and nausea stops him for a moment, makes him close his eyes and take a deep breath. He has almost killed Sherlock. It takes every ounce of will power to suppress the tremor and stick to his plan.

He can't understand how the other man could stay so calm. He has tried to talk about it with him at the breakfast table after the first eight hours in what felt like weeks thanks to Mike's sleeping meds. They have cleared his mind, although they haven't enhanced his abilities to discuss things with Sherlock. The detective has shut everything down.

John is a bit surprised that Sherlock has left him alone, but he is probably under a close watch. Mycroft, the Homeless network, Mrs Hudson. Hence the disguise. Mrs Hudson and Mycroft should be easy, but his best chance with the homeless network is probably their lack of modern means of communication – and that Sherlock was out of town. He is just glad that he hasn't mentioned his next appointment with Vivian to him. He hopes she will agree to other locations from now on.

A last moment of sentimentality is all he allows himself, a walk through the whole flat, through so many memories, after all he has no idea if and when he will return to Baker Street. His final glance through the living room ends on his Browning on the coffee table.

It's a strange sensation. He should probably put it away in its case, but he can't bring himself to touch it. Not after …

With an abrupt movement he turns, closes the door behind him before he descends the seventeen stairs, avoiding the creaking ones, the bag knocking against his leg. He lets himself in 221C, uses the backdoor and crosses the yard. When he climbs over the wall with practised ease, he looks back one more time. It has never before occurred to him that one day saving Sherlock would mean leaving him.

* * *

"Mycroft!"

Mycroft has never thought that there would be a day when he would miss his brother's rudeness, but right now he almost wishes for Sherlock's trademark tone of sneer or the forced friendliness.

"Any news?"

He doesn't bother with mundane things like 'What are you doing in Birmingham?' and 'I told you to return the card back to me.' He knows the answers to this anyway.

"John's instructor has a field day and will likely return in two hours."

His frustration is audible.

"I'm surprised that you didn't follow him."

"I was strongly advised not to do so."

For a moment Mycroft allows himself to speculate what 'strongly advised' implies, but there are more pressing matters.

"How is John?"

There is a long pause.

"I don't know …" His voice trails off before he admits "He is breaking apart."

Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment at the amount of pain that resonates in this statement. It is rare that Sherlock lowers his defences so much. And when he does, hell is about to break lose.

"What happened?"

"He pointed a gun at me."

"Sherlock!"

"No!"

"But …"

"No, John stays at Baker Street. You can double or triple your guards on me, but he stays. I know he won't hurt me."

It's a good thing that Sherlock doesn't know how helpless he feels when his little brother begs. Back then, it had almost destroyed both of them, when a detoxing Sherlock pleaded for just one more shot in-between his fever deliriums. Right now the choice isn't easier. Trusting John, the ex-army-doctor and love of his brother or distrusting the unknown assassin hidden in the compact body.

"I want camera surveillance."

Again the time until Sherlock speaks seems endless.

"Kitchen and living room, nowhere else."

It is more than he has hoped for. And it is a very bad sign. If Sherlock allows this intrusion of his privacy, things are probably worse than he let on.

* * *

Finally Sherlock is allowed to see the office of Major Kingsley. He has waited two more agonizing hours after his talk to John's former instructor who had indeed remembered something strange. Some kind of recommendation for John, only that it never ended in his record. He has been referred to Major Kingsley who apparently kept a copy of everything.

When he enters the office, Sherlock can see that this estimation is right. All walls are covered with cabinets and it is one of the seldom times he is thankful for people like Major Kingsley. Paper traces are always so much better than digital ones, because people tend to forget about them. But Major Kingsley is someone who will print out every email he receives until his last day in his job. If this man can't help him, probably nobody can.

He has prepared an alternative explanation – John being considered as a member of the security for the MoD – to justify his questioning. He can see that his counterpart is impressed and eager to help.

"He was shot, wasn't he? Oh, it's always good to know that they find their place when they are back at home. Watson … mmh … Watson, Adam … Watson, Christopher … ah, there he is … Watson, John."

He hands over a file and Sherlock methodically goes through every paper. He knows the first ones already, John's files, the copies of his instructor's notes. But then he sees something different, an order for sniper training.

"This is not in his official record."

Major Kingsley squirms a bit. "Well, you can't have a doctor with a sniper rifle. Makes the wrong impression."

Makes a better target for the other side, Sherlock mentally adds.

He studies the paper very thoroughly. The yellowing of the pages, the stains of the typewriter, Mycroft's signature. With a calmness he doesn't really possess he asks:

"Can you tell me something about those who ordered it?"

Sherlock has to restrict his impatience while waiting for the Major to remember something. Anything. Finally, he speaks.

"Ah, now, I know. It was during the summer, we had some official visitors from the head quarter or the ministry? I don't know, however, they were watching the training grounds and John Watson was always very good with his weapons. They recommended him for the sniper training, the guy filled out the paperwork."

"And who else was there besides the guy?"

"A woman, very posh lady, but also very cold if you know what I mean."

No, he doesn't what this means. How could he translate cold in a picture, a mental image? How would a 'cold' person look like? He has been described a cold. Should he look for a female version of himself?

"Can you describe her? Hair, eyes, anything remarkable?"

"Blonde hair, glasses, I think. Blue eyes?"

This time Sherlock can't contain his frustrated sigh. When would people start to observe?

"Oh, I remember her name", the Major suddenly perks up. "It's Vivian."

He feels panic rise, but concentrates on the matter at hand. This is not the right time to panic. With swift motions he browses through his phone until he has found what he was looking for.

"Is that her?"

The Major looks on the picture, confusion apparent on his face.

"Yes, that's her. Do you know her?"

With a groan Sherlock hits the speed dial for John's phone. When the voicemail answers, he reconsiders his former thought. Maybe it is the right time for panic after all.

* * *

John wanders the long hallway. Mycroft's assistant doesn't even blink anymore when he opens the long familiar door. His feet sink in the plush carpet as he enters the office.

Mycroft isn't behind his desk. His desk which looks so similar to the other. It shows the same kind of posh superiority, but its surface is virtually empty. The doctor closes his eyes, pictures flooding his mind.

A file on another desk. A file with his name. His file.

Things he has done during his army days.

His training, his tours, his injury.

Things he doesn't remember.

Sniper assignments, secret missions, assassinations.

The last page is a training recommendation. He knows the signature. He has seen it before and it always looked to him like a caged version of his brother's.

It's Mycroft's name, Mycroft's writing.

A melodic voice enters his memories.

"He has trained you."

"He has made you a killer."

"He has used you and he will do it again."

"He has trained you."

"… has made you killer."

"… will do it again."

"… trained … killer … again … trained … killer … again …"

He wishes the voice would stop, but he can't escape the sound. So beautiful and so haunting. He tries to get a clear head, to make sense of everything.

Mycroft's signature.

The voice.

The signature.

"Killer."

When Mycroft enters his office reading a file, John is surprised to find the weapon in his hand. It's not his army revolver, not his Browning, but he still knows it by heart. The click of the safety catch gets Mycroft's attention. Probably for the first time ever, John sees him surprised.

He pulls the trigger.

The shot stops everything. He can't hear the voice anymore, just silence is left.

When he studies the body on the floor, fascinated by the growing puddle of blood, he hears a soft sound from the door.

Another beautiful voice simply breathes his name.

"John"

* * *

_AN: The German part (the trigger) was taken from the ballad "Der Zauberlehrling" from Johann Wolfgang Goethe. A translation can be found here: german. about library / blgzauberl. htm_


	2. Epilogue

Once again Andrew Cavenaugh is summoned to her office. Once again the room he enters is pitch dark with the heavy curtains blocking out the sunlight. He wonders why she thinks this is still necessary, the darkness, the desk lamp which only allows him to see a shadow in the dark.

He sits down at his end of the table, waiting to be addressed. The silence grows heavier, darker, suppressing him. He has heard the rumours about the shooting and he is tired of these games. Her plan was successful, so why making a show of it. Finally he has enough of her mind games and he breaks the silence.

"So Mycroft Holmes is dead?"

"I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Cavenaugh, but I consider myself quite alive."

He can't hide his shock, hide his startled reaction, especially when the room is suddenly flooded in light, proving the claim without any doubt. Adrenaline pumps through his veins while he considers his options. The desk lamp is still pointing in his direction, so he is still not able to read the other man's reactions. Not that it would be any use to him, Mycroft Holmes was always hard to read and his voice has given nothing away.

"What about Vivian?" He can't help but ask. Not that he particularly cared about her, but it might give him a hint what will become of him.

"Ms Kelly was unfortunately involved in an accident. I'm afraid she didn't make it."

Again nothing in the voice, just a simple statement. He feels his palms going sweaty, resists the temptation to dry them on his trousers. He tries to stay calm, tries to think, wants to say something, but before he can make an attempt to explain himself, Holmes speaks again.

"However, as I was informed, your particular talent was employed in something that narrower minds might call treason."

"And what would Mycroft Holmes call it?"

The shake in his voice is almost inaudible, but that's probably not good enough in the presence of this man.

"That depends. I prefer to make a decision upon all the facts."

"And which facts do you want?" A stupid question, he is aware. But old habits die slow, and he was taught to only admit what the other already knows.

"You forged my writing on documents related to 'Project Apprentice'. I assume you can tell me more about it?"

"I know nothing about it. Vivian left me the instructions and nothing else."

As soon as the words have left his mouth, he feels the surge of desperation. God, why did he lie, as if it would ever work.

"That's unfortunate."

For a tiny moment he is allowed to hope that his lie has worked, but then he feels the needle in his neck. There is nothing he can do to prevent his head falling on the desk and the last thing he hears before the final click of the door is the smooth voice of Mycroft Holmes.

"Thank you, my dear. Please take care of Mr. Cavenaugh; I shall inform my brother and Dr. Watson."

* * *

_AN: The original prompt for the story was: Sherlock and John are together, and Sherlock's ranting on about crap telly or something, but he's also occasionally babbling about a case, too, and John's not paying full attention. Accidentally, in this process, Sherlock says a phrase that's a Trigger, switching John over to assassin mode - sort of a jeckyl/hyde/black ops thing - and since the phrase has been spoken by Sherlock, John's focused on Sherlock to be his 'handler' and tell him who/what/where/etc. How does this happen? How does Sherlock figure it out? Did Mycroft know? Does John even know? What happens next?_


End file.
